


Hiraeth

by KestrelShrike



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Chronic Illness, F/M, Gen, Romance, Slow Burn, Trespasser - Freeform, cystic fibrosis, post Inquisition
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-13
Updated: 2016-01-31
Packaged: 2018-04-20 15:09:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4791950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KestrelShrike/pseuds/KestrelShrike
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Here’s the rough draft of a tentative first chapter of a post Trespasser fic starring Maiwe and Abelas. I don’t know- I could really use opinions on whether or not this is a worthy venture or not, before I dive into something so long again. As always, it stars chronically ill Maiwe Lavellan.</p><p>In this chapter, Maiwe receives an unexpected visitor and recalls some hardships of her new life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

They stare at the space where her arm had been, just as they had stared at the mark. They look away more quickly now, but when they think Maiwe is not watching, they stare at the empty sleeve, the way it is pinned back on itself, creating a negative space. She let them stare, her face flat and dispassionate. The legends had only grown around her- slayer of dragons, hero of Thedas, leader of a small force that had stopped a Qunari army. Inevitably, eyes would wander up to her vallaslin, still so proud on her face. The Gods were a lie, a voice in her head said. You could have been free of them. Can you still wear your lie so happily? Yes.

While Fen’harel gathered an army, Maiwe held back. They expected her to go; were they not her people? But Maiwe stayed, her Inquisition disbanded, her companions scattered in the world. Loneliness was not an unfamiliar feeling, but it gnawed more now than it ever had before.

At night, she thought she clutched the sheets with both hands. She could feel her fingers, could feel the weave pressing into them. Then Maiwe woke and there was nothing where her left hand had been. There was merely that space, and the fleeting sensation of fabric against skin that no longer existed. Her mind seemed detached from the whole process. How curious, it said. Meanwhile, the rest of her continued as usual- the aches and pains of a body that had been held in stasis, an illness kept at bay by a magic no longer present. Would it come creeping back now? Would the corruption in her lungs overwhelm her? There was so much yet left to do; the fingers of her missing hand trembled and clutched a dagger that was not there.

Given a mansion in Kirkwall, Maiwe lasted all of a week. They were rebuilding and Varric assured her that things were better, but it still smelled of stone dust and misery. The alienage especially made her frown; all the bright flower boxes could not disguise the unpaved streets and the rats that wandered out in the daytime brazenly. The elves there were half afraid of her, bowing and not looking at her eye. They still looked at her stump; they all did.

“It’s much better here now,” one assured her, gaze fixated somewhere over Maiwe’s left shoulder. “With so many leaving to join Fen’harel’s army, there is enough room for everyone, finally. No one need beg on the street.” The words twisted in her heart and she should have stayed to help. Instead, Maiwe fled. Too many knew Solas here and her words would do nothing to turn the tide. She had to run further, to where his reach did not extend.

Lost, she returned to Haven. It no longer smoked, and stone structures were going up in place of temporary wooden shacks. They still loved her here, almost worshipped her. She had almost killed them all, and they welcomed her with open arms. She did not deserve this, but she had nowhere else to go. Her Clan did not live, and even if they had, even the Dalish were joining Solas’ growing forces. Haven, filled with Maiwe’s worst memories, became her home again.

In the scorched and melted walls of the former Chantry, Maiwe found her old bedroom. Now that there were houses enough to go round, people had left what had previously been the only standing structure. They were building a new Chantry, the same size but far more magnificent. With the gold that had been donated, they could afford leaded, colorful windows that depicted not only the prophet Andraste, but the newly reinstated hero Shartan. The newly elected mayor smiled broadly at Maiwe as he pointed this out, gesturing from Shartan’s pointed ears and back to her own. With his bald head, the Shartan depicted looked eerily like Solas, and it was difficult for Maiwe to fake a smile and nod. “I appreciate the gesture.” That was all she could say. They knew she did not believe in the Maker. She believed in nothing except her own strength, and that if she were to call upon her friends, they would return. That had to be enough.

Now she sat in what had once been Josephine’s office, the wooden chair hard against her back. With her eyes closed, Maiwe tried to summon even an ounce of Josephine’s patience and political acumen, and found only nothing. Her stump ached and her prosthesis lay discarded at the side. It was a simple thing, light wood to get her used to the weight and the way the leather cup rubbed against her bare skin. It irritated at the best of times and today it had made her bleed. Coupled with the ache in her chest, it was difficult not to succumb to misery and self pity. Only Scout Harding’s report kept her awake- faithful Lace, who helped Maiwe braid her own blonde hair now, who had stayed with her. They went riding, pushing the limits of Maiwe’s endurance every day. “It’ll be good for you. Come on.” Lace took her to childhood spots, swimming holes and sunny spots in the Hinterlands where Maiwe could simply soak. And Lace still scouted, still brought Maiwe news. She didn’t have to stay, but she did.

“There’s a Sentinel elf coming, in that armor they all wear. I don’t know if he’s an envoy of Fen’harel, but he’s traveling alone.” Now Maiwe waited, one hand twisting a piece of braided leather over and over again.

“What do you think he wants?”

Maiwe paused to consider. “I don’t know.”

“Do you want me to have people ready? Just in case.” How did Harding even still have people? There should have been none. Maiwe didn’t like how they all still followed her. She was nothing anymore. Not until she figured out how she would move against Solas. She was useless.

“It’s fine. If he wanted to kill me, he could have at the Temple. Or he could just sneak in. I don’t have guards anymore.” A weak smile. At least Maiwe’s every move was no longer monitored.

Lace looked doubtful but shrugged, vanishing outside into the winter crispness. Soon the snow would fall again.

When her thoughts returned to the present, Abelas was already standing before her. Maiwe’s instincts had dulled as the pain had flared, and she was visibly started for several long seconds before composing herself. Abelas looked much the same- did he still call himself the same thing? His armor matched what Solas had been wearing. It seemed a confirmation of Maiwe’s worst thoughts.

“Abelas.” Her tone was admirably even. “Welcome. I am no longer Inquisitor, but perhaps you only come bearing a message.”

“I wish to join you.” He was affectless; her mouth hung open for a brief second.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maiwe and Abelas' discussion is so rudely interrupted by walking corpses.

“Walk with me.” Maiwe rose from her chair heavily, unbalanced. She was so used to pushing off the wood with both hands, swung forward what remained of her left every time, almost falling and catching herself only at the last minute. On another day with less surprises, she would have been embarrassed. Today she merely accepted it as part of her new reality, moving toward Abelas and then passing him, walking between the warped wooden doors of what had once been the Chantry and emerging into the bright light. 

Everywhere, the sound of hammers fell, striking stone. Nails were driven into wood and people smiled, though their eyes were still distantly sad. When they saw Maiwe, they bobbed their heads, expressions nervous but hopeful. “Inquis-Lavellan,” they said, hastily correcting themselves and not looking her in the eyes. Instead, they stared at her empty sleeve as if that were better, easier to look upon. Her sacrifice was too visible and she looked away, until the silence between her and the rest was too heavy. Maiwe and Abelas moved on, and the other elf said nothing. He merely observed, though he looked at her lack just like the others. He met her gaze with a challenge; he was not afraid of acknowledging it. 

“I thought you would be with Fen’harel, organizing his revolution. It has been two years; why come to me now?” Maiwe no longer had the time or the patience for diplomacy. 

They both stopped of their own accord, on the ashes of where the tavern had once been. There were still a few iron beer mugs left, warped by dragon fire but recognizably cups. Maiwe poked one out of the ashes with one boot and then buried it again. 

“I did travel with him.” Maiwe’s body tensed at Abelas’ words. Spies were a very real possibility, no matter how much she tried to keep her numbers small. There had been a few already, outsiders who stood out in how eager they were to get close to her, at how bold they were. They were all elven, one of them marked by vallaslin just as Maiwe was, and it hurt her heart that they could not come to an understanding. Instead, her hand held the knife that executed them, Leliana whispering soft encouragement in her ear. It would be so easy to let them go. It would be too easy. Stern words were not enough, jails merely a stopgap. Maiwe had tried, jailing a Dalish elf who spit on her boots and called her a traitor. In the morning, the other elf had slit his throat with a piece of stone worked from the wall with bloodied fingers. 

Her hand reached down to the dagger at her waist, gripping the pommel. “I disagreed with him on several things. He has… changed. I was not a part of his original rebellion.” It was left unsaid that Abelas wanted no part of it now. He had seen enough, and had turned his head, sought her out. Whether or not she would take his words as truth was another matter entirely. 

Slowly, her fingers loosened, uncurling one by one to hang uncurled once more. Maiwe was ready to hear more, eager even- it showed in the cant of her head, slightly tilted. If Solas was already losing the support of the only elvhen that were left, perhaps she had a hope of stopping him. The hope felt strange and unwieldy in her chest, a sensation that was not her lungs being blocked off or pain crippling her. It was too light; it put her off balance, would have taken her in all too eagerly had not the pair been interrupted by a runner, sweat sodden and gasping. 

“Corpses on the outskirts. We.. were digging out a foundation and they rose. They have swords. They’re ours or Templars, I don’t know. Help.” The words came out in starts and stops, the man leading himself into a coughing fit that impressed even Maiwe. 

“Breathe,” she cautioned him, offering him a shoulder to lean on while he tried to gather himself. It seems like her talk with Abelas would be cut short. “If you truly wish to join us, come with me. Help me deal with the undead, and I will consider what you have said.” The dagger came fully out this time; Maiwe simply did not have the minutes necessary to fetch her bow and attach the prosthetic that would allow her to pull it back. It made her feel vulnerable too- it took a separate set of hands entirely to attach it properly, as she had not mastered the tricky leather straps yet. There were few she trusted with that duty, and Abelas was certainly not one of them. These were merely undead- how difficult of a battle could it be? 

Running made her chest ache, but it was another sign of mortality that Maiwe could not show. She ignored it as best she could, her heavy breathing hid under layers of leather and fur. The people only saw their former savior charging toward danger again, upper lip slightly raised, exposing sharpened canine teeth that so many shems told scary tales about. 

It wasn’t the first time the undead had bothered Haven. There were too many restless spirits here, buried beneath blackened wood and stone and earth, and a strange magic seemed to linger over the place still. Hundreds had died here and hadn’t been given a burial, the only funeral miles away on a snowy mountaintop, conducted by companions half starving and hopeless. The bodies appeared with every excavation, and it was inevitable that some rose once more. Thus far, however, none of them had been armed, and none of them had belonged to the enemy. It had been hard to lay to rest once again figures dressed in familiar clothing, in jewelry that still identified who they once had been. It would not be difficult to kill Corypheus’ forces once again. In fact, Maiwe was glad for the opportunity. She had once shied away from wielding death, but now she was hardened. It was so simple and easy to plunge a dagger into flesh and draw a straight line. It was not complicated, as too many things were. 

The builders had fled, barricading themselves indoors. None of them were soldiers. They could swing a hammer, but swords and bows were beyond them. The shambling dead moved faster than many thought, imbued with a dark magic the mages called ‘fascinating’ and the rest called ‘a nuisance.’ It had taken only one man being torn apart for people to learn to keep their distance, to let the Inquisitor do what she did best. There were guards besides, but they were out hunting today, the few that had stayed behind glancing at Maiwe with hesitance, and then back to the bodies. 

To her surprise, Abelas followed, drawing a sword that glittered with golden runes and the ozone scent of magic. He moved faster than she did, but Maiwe was ahead, reaching the undead before he could. Her movements were clipped, precise. One rattled an axe at her, but it wasted precious time in posturing, and seemed almost relieved when her knife ripped upward from sternum to jaw bone. It crumbled back into dust, folding in on itself with only a sigh. 

Three more remained, covered in piecemeal leather armor, joints held together with red lyrium and rotting sinews. They moved more swiftly than their companion, turning their heads towards Maiwe despite the fact their eyes had rotted out long ago. One step, two, and they shuffled ever closer. With swords, their reach far exceeded her own, and Maiwe found herself bounding and weaving as best as possible, trying to dance closer but constantly thrown off balance by the unfamiliar lopsidedness of her new body. It was too much; her right arm was growing tired, and what remained of her left rose constantly as she forgot it was there. She overcompensated, overbalanced, falling to the earth and coating herself in ash and stone dust. After so much fighting, this was how it would end? Maiwe had slain more corpses than she could count. Toward the end of her run as Inquisitor, she had barely counted them as enemies. They fell like flies to her bow, leaving a battlefield littered with her white fletched arrows. All of that was forgotten now, as they closed in on her, as she struggled to rise and fell again and again. 

With two easy, loping strides Abelas swung his sword into the midst of the trio. His first blow nearly severed a head from shoulders, leaving the corpse with only a thin strip of dried out flesh to connect them. His next neatly took off a body’s sword arm, and his third plunged deep into where the heart of the undead would be, if it still beat. It took only a few more stabs to finish them off, and he extended a hand down to Maiwe. She hesitated before taking it, not liking the feel of his flesh on her own. It was too warm, too close. 

“You will listen to me now?” She nodded.


	3. Memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Abelas recalls life with Solas, and what turned him away. Maiwe makes plans to march to Tevinter.

Gratitude did not sit well on Maiwe. Her fingers drummed on her own flesh, a repeated pattern that only served to further irritate her. “How did you come to be separated from Solas?” She had said she would listen, but her tone was too sharp and her eyes too hard, her shoulders stiff with the indignation of the reluctantly rescued. A pot of tea sat between them, gently steaming, as yet unpoured. Cuts and bruised graced both their bodies, but at least they had bathed since the skirmish. 

“I was with him after my purpose was fulfilled,” Abelas began, and he saw it unravel in his memories. 

*******

With no goal, no purpose, and no Goddess Abelas followed forest rumors that led him back to a man he had met only once, who had triggered memories buried deep. “You look different than you once were, Feh’harel,” Abelas had said. 

“Yes,” was all that Solas responded with, and from that moment they traveled together, reliving stories of Arlathan in starts and stops, memories still so painful to the touch. When Solas spoke, his passion gave Abelas hope that the past could be restored. For weeks it was only the two of them, commander and lieutenant, sending out word and not staying in one place for too long. In Solas, Abelas saw something to serve, and he became comfortable with his new existence, even if continued sorrow pulled at his heart. A new name was out of reach still, but at least he could mourn Mythal with someone who knew her as she once was. 

Then the followers came, first in trickles of one or two, and then in streams of elves leaving behind alienages and small towns, even leaving their Dalish clans, and something in Solas changed. Their fireside talks of Mythal dwindled away, and soon her name was rarely spoken aloud, even by those who bore her vallaslin. They tried to speak to Abelas at first, those shadowed Dalish, thinking that he was one of them. They saw his armor but they did not question it; they could not conceive of a world where something beyond their own kind existed. He turned his shoulder to them, and did not dignify them with a response. “We are not the same, you and I,” was all he would say if pressed, and his reputation as being cold and unfriendly grew in proportion to Solas’ power. 

At night, the city elves would pray to the Maker, and the Dalish to their dead and quite Gods. Had they never seen who they bent their heads in supplication to? Could they not read their own slave marks? The two groups were separate for some time, and then the singing started. 

Generations separated them, yet they shared common songs. Voices rose, hesitant at first, and then joyous, unafraid to be loud. They shared words and heritage and a hope that Solas would make things better for their people and they clung to this, finding commonalities. Some of the songs had been passed down from Abelas’ own time, and he marveled at how little the tunes had changed despite himself. He did not join in, but he would sit just out of reach of the light and close his eyes, imagining voices long dead singing instead. 

“How will you save them?” Abelas had not dared to ask Solas until now. It felt so deeply personal. These elves were like children, and why Solas amassed them Abelas did not know. Everything about the apostate was a mystery, for all that they had been a duo for so long. 

“I will repair my earlier mistakes. I will take down the veil.” At those words, a shiver ran down Abelas’ spine. He had seen what happened when the veil went up. The People had been destroyed, their way of life becoming nothing more than fragmented memories. Locked away in the Temple, Abelas had not known whose magic and will had put up the barrier, but now he looked at his companion aghast. Fen’harel had lived up to his ways. He had tricked Abelas into trusting him, into believing that he had a plan that would fix what had been done previously. 

“You will repeat your earlier mistakes. How can you be assured that your plan will work now?” Abelas leaned forward, fire cutting his face into a series of shadows and angles, amber eyes glowing through it all. 

“I am sure. Tearing down the veil will allow the People to be great once more. Magic will flow in their veins again, and we will rise.” The glint in Solas’ eyes made Abelas turn away, finding the flames more comfortable to look at. 

“And what of those that gather around us now? Few of them have magic. The veil will consume them. And your Inquisitor- she had no magic to speak of.” 

“Sacrifices are necessary.” Though Solas sounded sad, he did not sound regretful. 

They were not people to Abelas; they were shadows. Yet they were shadows he had heard sing night after night, shadows who had children that tugged at their skirts and ran giggling past him, daring each other to touch his burnished armor. They were all like children, knowing so little, yet they trusted Solas just as Abelas had once trusted Mythal, and Solas would sacrifice them in a plan that had failed so spectacularly once before. 

*****

“I have seen the world ruined once. I would not see it happen again,” Abelas concluded, and a heavy silence fell over the two. Abelas drank the tea, letting the warm liquid soothe his throat. He had not talked so much in many months, and did not find the process easy. He trusted Maiwe little more than he trusted Solas, but there was something in her lack of magical power that drew him to her. 

“Solas would sacrifice as carelessly as the Evanuris he locked away. If he is unable to learn from his past mistakes, what is left? I know his movements. I can be of assistance.” If Maiwe would not have him, Abelas would move on. Spirits yet remained, guardians of other Temples and sacred spaces. They would converse with him. Perhaps they could guide him onto the path to the next life. It would be preferable than living to see the world tear itself in two once more. 

“You can tell me his camps, what he plans on doing next. You know his numbers?” Maiwe leaned forward now, the delicate pattern of bruising on her face forgotten as she rested her face on her fist. Abelas nodded in response. 

“You saved my life today, and you may yet save us all. I will take your help. We are set to march to Tevinter soon, to find those Solas has not reached yet, but first there is someone I would have you meet. Her name is Briala, and I think you two will have much to discuss.” Abelas did not understand the smile on the ex-Inquisitor’s face.


	4. Shards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maiwe returns the favor of saving a life to Abelas, and a familiar face appears.

Together, they crossed the Waking Sea in a small boat, stowed among the silk and dyes bound for Val Royeux. The others were free to cross the bridge, to travel those roads still heavily peopled, but Maiwe and Abelas stowed themselves away, movements covert. Their close confines did not breed a similar closeness in personality, though they grew used to the sensation of their skin touching. At night, Maiwe often fell asleep with her head lolling on Abelas’ shoulder, and he did not push her off. It kept the worst of the dreams at bay, though Maiwe was always quick to pull away from him in the morning, refusing to meet his eyes. At least the journey only took a few days. Any more and she would have to answer questions she was uncomfortable with. 

They stretched their legs on a rocky shoreline, looking up at the forested cliffs above them. They were wet up to the thighs, the boat that had taken them coming as close as it dared before continuing on its way for real ports. This was wilderness, and nothing more. This was safety. 

A small stream fed into the sea, falling from distant mountains. It ran cool and clear, and Abelas stopped by it to wash his face, putting down his arms. They had not moved in several days, so how could they be so sore? Maiwe watched him and then turned away, embarrassed as Abelas began to strip his armor, washing himself as best was possible. The air here was still filled with salt and stinging, but they were close to Val Royeux. Even the nobles did not want this land. Not yet. Abelas moved further into the shade of the trees, and Maiwe shadowed him, keeping her distance and letting her fingers graze their gnarled bark. 

A muffled yell disturbed her. Unlike Abelas, Maiwe was still armed, and she quickly pulled the dagger from her waist. It was freshly sharpened and curved, so that when it pulled out it left a large exit wound, rending flesh and leaving its mark. 

She moved more swiftly than she thought possible. Abelas lay on the bank of the stream, in danger of falling entirely into the cold water. A bear loomed over him, and Maiwe spared the time for a single thought, “Will I ever be free from bears?” 

The bear reared up on its hind legs. It must have been at least seven feet tall, if not more, but with a pelt that was scraggly and lacked shine; the conflict between the Mages and the Templars had devastated wildlife throughout Thedas for years to come. With no deer to feed on, all the nugs taken by half starved lyrium addicts, the bear turned itself on prey that came on two legs, mindless in its ursine hunger. It gave out a dull bellow, the noise accompanied with frothy slaver that coated its jaws and dripped downward. It steamed in the air, despite the fact it was not incredibly cold. 

Carefully, Abelas attempted to the lean to the side, fingers grasping for his discarded weapon. Even this small movement upset the animal, who swatted one broad paw in the air. Its claws were dull, but Maiwe knew from far too many experiences that they could easily cut through flesh. Abelas stilled, his eyes darting toward her. He did not look scared; it was almost as if the experience bored him. It was in sharp contrast to Maiwe, who felt as though her eyes would bug out of her head. She moved silently, hopeful that the creature would not notice her. 

Up close, it smelled foul. Something more was wrong with it, some deep sickness that let out the aroma of rot. There was a round already on its lower back, near the tailbone, festering. The edges were faintly green where the fur had already fallen off. In it, Maiwe saw her target. 

She offered quick prayers to Andruil, who she no longer believed in. Let the Goddess be real and living. Let her walk the earth, released by Solas, if only to help guide Maiwe’s hand. To an Evanuris, this bear would be nothing. To Maiwe, unbalanced, feeling the loss of her hand more than ever, this bear became her entire world. 

Her feet, at least, were still swift, and years in the forest had trained her to move quietly. Though her lungs threatened to seize and cough, Maiwe ran, dagger pointed outwards as she drove it home, deep into the rotting flesh of the bear’s existing wound. It all parted so easily, already softened, and when Maiwe pulled her weapon back toward her, it took a chunk of the bear with it, hunks of fear mingled with fresh blood and pus. It all came out with so little effort that she nearly fell backward. 

Not immune to pain, the bear turned its attention firmly on Maiwe, the bellow that he gave loud enough to make her eardrums ring. The wound was hardly fatal, but it had hurt, and that was the point. With the bear watching Maiwe, falling back on all fours to prepare a charge, Abelas was able to rise to his feet, reaching his sword easily. Magic channeled down his arms to the weapon in a perfect amalgamation of the two; Maiwe would have to ask how his art worked, when all this was said and done. If they survived this encounter. Either way, she kept moving, letting the bear follow every small step she took, her chest rising and falling rapidly. Her eyes flickered between Abelas and the bear. 

It charged, deceptively fast for all its size and emaciation. Maiwe dove to the side, her rogue training serving her well. Her head tucked in and her body dropped into a roll, darting to the side. The bear had moment, but it could not turn as swiftly as she could. It stopped, dazed, as Maiwe stood up again. The distance between them had closed, but she was still safe; Maiwe had always been far better at getting out of danger than she had been at fighting. 

The bear raised up again, making its fatal mistake. It left its belly and throat bared, and Abelas sprang into action. His sword had the reach that Maiwe’s dagger did not, and he had the power she lacked. Leaning into his thrust, he let his blade flicker with golden light, the force of his efforts evident in the way his muscles strained and the sheen of sweat on his brow. The sword parted flesh, and there was a single moment where the bear seemed almost comically surprised before its viscera fell to the earth in another spray of blood and gore, and the bear swiftly followed. It grunted and whine, the noise pitiful enough that Maiwe stepped in, sliding her blade across its throat. Finally the light left its eyes. 

“We’re even now. A life for a life.” She was panting as she spoke, but the exhilaration of the violence lent her eyes a liveliness she had not shown Abelas yet. 

Before Abelas could respond, the noise of applause startled them both. They sprang up and moved closer together, unconsciously taking a back to back pose that let them see as much as was possible through the surrounding trees. 

“Good show, Inquisitor. I always knew you had some good fight in you.” From beneath the shadows, a cloaked figure stepped out, throwing back her hood and revealing dark hair and a half smile partially hidden by a simple Orlesian mask. 

“Briala. You could have helped us.” Maiwe’s guard relaxed, but Abelas stayed upright, his sword still held at the ready, his golden magic still tinting the air with ozone. 

“You looked more than capable of handling one bear. Who is this? Another Dalish?” Briala showed no fear in stepping closer, though her body was still taut. Now she stood only a few feet away. Maiwe was the first to bridge the gap, extending her single blood-splattered hand to shake. 

“Not Dalish. He’s elvhen. Like Solas. Fen’harel.” The venom in Maiwe’s tone was not intended. Briala took a single step back, though she untied her mask and let it fall to the earth. She was composed, her brown skin not covered in sweat as they were. She looked fresh and ready, and her eyes were wary. 

Abelas still did not lower his sword. “Who is this?” He was not breathless, as Maiwe was. 

“Briala. It is complicated, but some say she is the power behind the Throne of Orlais. She had something she wished to discuss with us.” Briala smiled again then, in an expression that did not meet her eyes. She beckoned for them to follow and they did, slowly, still on alert. 

The sea vanished from view as they ventured deeper into the forest. The three moved in silence over what must have been two hours, their eyes constantly scanning the trees. Finally they halted, and Maiwe’s breath was taken away by what Briala revealed with a hint of pride. 

It was an eluvian, intact but no longer active. Its glass was dark even as Briala trailed her fingers across the surface. “Solas took the ability to unlock the eluvians from me, but he could not take every mirror. I have some hidden throughout Orlais. Many of them are broken. Could your friend open it and see where it leads?” 

Abelas looked between them before nodding and stepping forward. He let his fingers rest lightly against the glass, let magic flow out of him. It went over the surface of the mirror, traveled up and down the gilt edging, exploring carved halla and twisted, winged shapes. A light appeared within and then nothing. It had not worked. “I have never had the key.” He sounded almost apologetic. “Solas could unlock it from the Crossroads, but from here I can do nothing.” At his words, Briala looked sad, and her jaw squared. 

“Then it’s useless to me.” Her fist dove into the glass, shattering it, heedless of the way it sliced her skin.Maiwe and Abelas both stepped forward, mouths hanging open, but they were too late. The loss of their shared heritage echoed in the sound of tiny shards hitting the forest floor. Abelas was stricken, lost and unsure for the first time since he had found Maiwe again. It came instinctual- she took his hand in her own, and he did not pull away. He watched the glass rest on dead leaves and in thick underbrush, and it seemed like the sun did not reach.


	5. Firelight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A kiss, and decisions are made.

After so much time, Maiwe was unaccustomed to showing weakness. The fire could not warm her skin- it only made the sweat that ran down her face more obvious, catching every glint of water. How could she sweat when she was so cold? Her jaw clenched to keep from chattering and she looked out over the flames, past Briala and Abelas, to the gilt frame of the Eluvian. The light caught only the edges of it, an occasional flash of the edges of the glass that now lay broken and scattered at its feet. The night was very quiet. 

“You are unwell.” It was Abelas who broke the silence, his gaze on Maiwe making her turn her head away. She could feel Briala looking at her too now, their combined gazes too measuring, too judgmental. 

“I’m fine.” Maiwe stood abruptly, legs untangling from their complex, folded geometry. She moved away so that the fire was only a distant heat on the small of her back. 

Abelas followed her, always one step behind, saying nothing. He was simply there, and eventually his fingers found hers, entwining in an echo of how they had stood earlier, when they had viewed the shattered eluvian. 

“You are unwell,” he repeated, and this time Maiwe did not immediately jump to her own defense. Her general health was no secret- it was perhaps the single most scandalous rumor in Thedas for a long while. It was unsurprising that Abelas should know, even after so many years in isolation. Solas had known, had comforted her and made her herbal potions, and his knowledge had spread to Abelas in turn. 

“Some days are better than others,” she finally acknowledged, if only to break the silence. Her limbs were heavy and they ached, despite the fact that they had covered less distance today than usual. They had spent too long simply staring at their own shattered hopes, the glass that threatened to cut them if they stepped wrong. 

Their hands were equally calloused, but his fingers were longer than her own, a contradiction between feeling more fine and feeling strong. Hesitantly, Maiwe let her thumb rub his palm, and he did not break away. How long had it been since she had any contact like this? She was not a woman who enjoyed being touched, as a general principle- Varric had been her last hug, Harding the last she had let brush and braid her hair. Every part of her felt lopsided, especially now. She would never hold both his hands in both her own; the way they stood now was the only way they would ever stand. Why should it matter? Her face was burning with something beyond the fever. 

“You did not leave me alone when Briala broke the eluvian.” Had that only been a few hours ago? Abelas spoke of it as if it had been long in the past. Time still worked differently for him. 

The way they came together felt natural; Maiwe was much shorter than Abelas, but she did not feel frail or delicate, or anything other than capable. He did not pull her close roughly, held no domination, but expressed no hesitance either. They pulled together and stood facing each other for a long moment, and later Maiwe would be hard pressed to say who tilted their head forward first, who initiated the kiss that took her already limited breath away in such a pleasant way. His skin felt so cool on her own, and the stray light from the fire caught every escaped hair, silver and gold, so that everything around them took on a metallic glow. 

She would be pressed further to say how long they spent together, hungry for comfort, taking it from each other greedily, but eventually someone nearby cleared her throat, stifling a laugh, and Maiwe stumbled backwards, feeling greedy but not ashamed. 

“If you two are finished,” Briala said, and then she laughed out loud again, walking back to the fire with a sweeping gesture of her arm. Abelas did not return Maiwe’s look, staring straight forward, and he did not pick up her hand again. They moved back to the warmth and sat separately again, as if their lips still did not ache, as if her illness was not now on his breath. 

“Where will you go from here? What more do you need from me?” If Briala noticed the way that Maiwe and Abelas held each other apart now, she said nothing, diving straight back into business. “Do you still weep for your eluvian, elder one?” Her words were cutting, but Abelas did not answer. 

It was up to Maiwe to carry on the conversation. Her mind was elsewhere, replaying their kiss over and over again, but she pulled herself back to the present. Her body still felt heavy. “What progress have you made with the elves in Val Royeux? Do they still leave to find Solas? What do they say of me?” It had become too easy to separate herself from her own emotions, to fall back into command and push down everything that would make it difficult to lead. 

“Those that remain listen to what I say. Through Celene, I’ve made improvements, but Celene’s popularity wanes. The nobles grow bored with her, and are wary of the new rights their servants have gained. We’ve lost half the population to Solas, but the half that has stayed will be loyal. What reason do they have to pin their hopes and dreams on yet another martyr?” Celene’s name was a curse in Briala’s mouth. 

“As for you, my dear ex-Inquisitor… They wonder what more you will do for them. What have you gained for your own people? You are Dalish; do you see them as your equals when so many others do not? For a time, things became better. You showed the world what an elf was capable of, and then you disbanded your Inquisition, lost your power, lost your arm. They wonder what one woman can do, crippled and sickly, with no forces to her name.” 

“I have my spies. I have my loyal friends,” Maiwe spat back, surprised at her own defensiveness. Her stump gave out a stab of pain, as if the mark still flared up with her emotions. 

“And have you shown them that? Have you shown them that you are anything other than just one woman? They haven’t even seen you in months. They’re not even sure if you still live, or if you are simply a collection of rumors now. They plan a revolution, they gather their own forces and make their own weapons, but they are afraid. What can you do for them?” 

There was a long silence, where the only noise were the logs collapsing into themselves, sending off stray sparks that were eaten by the darkness. 

“Then we will go to Val Royeux, and we will show them what I am capable of.” Maiwe thought that Briala smiled in the dark.


End file.
